


Better Places To Be

by merelyafigment, visionofblue (merelyafigment)



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, I basically just want to watch them banter, M/M, WIP, also there's an inexplicable pool table, let's not take this too seriously, written for fun and practice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26153221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/merelyafigment, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/visionofblue
Summary: Emerald City was shut down for around ten months after the riot. What if during part of that time Miguel Alvarez and Ryan O'Reily were thrown together in a cell in Unit B? (Set after the season 1 riot. It's a potential work in progress that I have no plan for, so consider yourself warned.)
Relationships: Miguel Alvarez/Ryan O'Reily
Comments: 16
Kudos: 40





	1. Maybe Don't Stroke Your Pole In Public

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note/Warning** : This is an experiment. I can offer no guarantees this will ever be finished, or coherent. 
> 
> I've been away from writing for over a decade, and I'm just getting back into it. I wanted to just play, and try a WIP, to see if that could keep me writing. I don't have this planned out, or even know if there's another part here yet. It might die a quick unfinished death. Don't expect serious attention to canon, either.This will probably be fairly silly fluff. (Well, for Oz anyway.)
> 
>  **Warnings:** Oz is a terrible place filled with terrible people, and thus there's always the chance of terrible language, terrible views and attitudes, drugs, violence, racism and homophobia and awful slurs, and other things that make me cringe to type, etc.

"It's 'cause you suck at it, right?" Alvarez dropped the question out of nowhere, leaning against the bars at the entrance of their currently open cell. He hadn't even been there a minute ago, despite sounding like they were in the middle of some discussion Ryan hadn't been aware they were having. 

"Having a fun conversation with the voices in your head, there, hermano?" Ryan's gaze went back to his travel magazine, the only one he'd managed to get after losing most of their shit in the riot.

They spent most of the day crammed in on fucking top of each other, too many people in each cell, bitching and simmering, and the hacks had learned pretty quick that led to explosions. So now they got free time out of their cages during set hours of the day. If they played nice. Why Miguel Alvarez felt the need to saunter back over to their cell when they were being given that time to roam free, Ryan had zero clue. They were still restricted to Unit B, but there were other cells, other cocksuckers to visit, and even a fucking pool table. That was possibly the only thing that was better here than Emcity, besides the generally more lax supervision.

"I'm talking to you, limey bastard."

"Limeys are British, cholo. Traditionally, we hate those motherfuckers. You flunk history, Alvarez?" Ryan turned the page, but he was mostly looking at the pictures of stunning vistas at this point rather than reading the words, focusing instead on his chatty new roomie. Well, he was listening, but he wasn't giving away the fact that he had any interest in this conversation with his bored tone.

"Pretty sure that Limey shit ain't in the textbooks, O'Whitey. And I'm Cuban, motherfucker." Alvarez mostly sounded like he was pretending to be offended. He seemed kind of fucking bored, actually. Might explain why he'd come back after leaving shortly after they'd opened the cells.

"See how annoying that is? Learn to insult a man properly." Ryan looked over at Alvarez again, his glossy magazine of better places to be fluttering closed. "Now, what the hell are you rambling about? I don't suck at anything."

During the initial frantic shifting of inmates out of the destruction of Emcity, they'd both been stuck temporarily elsewhere. O'Reily had been put in time-out in Ad-Seg for being a naughty riot leader, while the surprisingly slippery Latino had somehow managed to escape that fate. Despite holding the same fucking position during the riot, Alvarez had instead spent his time sucking down pudding cups in the infirmary.

Sure, Alvarez had gotten a little shot by S.O.R.T. during the riot, apparently, but he seemed fine now. He was still propped up at their cell entrance with a bored lean, one hand idly rubbing circles over his stomach. Evidently, Alvarez had some sort of issue with buttoning their new dark blue prison uniform shirts all the way down, because so far he always left the last few undone, leaving the white t-shirt underneath peeking out. Personally, Ryan had to leave the top couple undone or he felt like he was being choked or being forced to attend church in a dress shirt or something. Ryan missed wearing normal clothes. He added that to the list of shit that kept occurring to him since they'd lost their little spot over the rainbow.

Since they'd joined the party late, only being moved to Unit B after everyone else, they'd somehow ended up shoved in a cell together. At least it was just them for now, but they'd only been here a couple days.

"Pool, man. You don't play. You sit in here and read." Miguel stopped haunting their threshold and loped inside, swinging down into the lower bunk, out of Ryan's view. That had been one minor relief -- no posturing and arguing over who got the top bunk. Alvarez actually preferred the lower bunk, and they'd settled in without a fuss.

"It's my quiet time." Ryan thumped his foot down on his shitty thin mattress, sending the rattle down to Alvarez. "Usually."

"I knew it -- you can't play." Alvarez chuckled softly, and it was really more of a rumble with his already gruff voice. 

Alvarez had mostly gone under Ryan's radar until the riot. Sure, he'd noticed him hanging out loyally with his boys when Ryan had dealt with the Latinos, and his occasionally smart mouth. There'd also been that period when the fucker looked high a lot of the time, on something that looked real interesting, which he hadn't gotten from Ryan or the wise guys. He'd wondered if it was from the infirmary, because the Latinos had started to snag shit from there to sell.

"Pool halls have booze and bets, Fidel. It's kind of my element. I can play pool." Ryan's magazine rested on his chest, neglected, as Alvarez did whatever the hell he was doing underneath him. Ryan didn't generally enjoy having a cocksucker he didn't already know and have entirely figured out just moving around mysteriously out of his eye line. But he liked the top bunk. And at the moment, Alvarez seemed pretty still. Talkative, but still.

"Why don't you play then? I'm tired of playing the fucking bikers, man. They keep calling me beaner, I'm gonna kill one of 'em. You could spare me some extra charges."

Alvarez had stepped up during the riot, and that's when Ryan started to really take note of him. Ryan had noticed him mostly because he was unnoticeable during the chaos. In the good, relaxing way. The Aryans and the homeboys had been driving Ryan fucking crazy, acting like dick-swinging apes (the Aryans, bikers, and that useful but disgusting fucker Ross) or drug addicted toddlers (the homeboys). Alvarez had kept the Latinos locked down tight, and Ryan hadn't had to put up with any petty bullshit from them working his last nerve. He'd appreciated it. Not enough to indulge Alvarez's surprising altruistic and humane side without a damn good reason when he'd wanted Ryan to vote with him to help bleeding hostages, given that it would've strained his alliance with the two other leaders. But still, he'd noticed the man's leadership skills. Alvarez's occasional pesky desire to do the right thing out of nowhere had also been noted.

"I just called you a cholo like two minutes ago." Ryan pointed out, with his own quiet laugh. He didn't exactly know why they were having this conversation _now_ , when they'd have nothing but time to fill once they were shut in again, but he also didn't feel like moving too much at the moment. And it's not like he was going to go play pool surrounded by annoying asswipes.

"Yeah, but you don't fucking mean it, O'Reily. You're just a dick, not a racist motherfucker." Alvarez's distinct raspy voice carried up towards him again, this time accompanied by a small rhythmic hollow sound. Must've been tapping restless fingers on the metal bunk frame.

"I'm flattered at the high praise. But no thanks. You wanna bend over, stick out your ass, and stroke a pole in front of these cocksuckers, you have fun with that, but you're on your own." Ryan had left their cell since landing here. He wasn't some fucking monk committed to penance and light reading. For one thing, there were more Irish in Unit B and he could work on gathering a crew. But he still hadn't bothered with the pool table, beyond observing the crowd around it from the sidelines.

The rumble spread into a hoarse low laugh this time. "You got a point. I do have a nice ass, maybe I should play less.

"Can't say that I've noticed there, Miguelito, but I'll take your word for it." Fine, that was knowledge Ryan had actually acquired in the last couple of days, but that's only because it was within a few feet of him most of the time.

"What the fuck you call me, pendejo?" A thump against the mattress Ryan was lying on combined with the sudden edge in Alvarez's tone to let him know he'd hit a sore spot. Hadn't been his intention, but he still filed it away.

"Hey, punchy -- calm down. How was I supposed to know that would be more insulting than beaner? Fuck me for trying to be nice." Ryan left enough of his own rough edges in his reply to make it clear that this was as much of an apology as Miguel was getting, but it was an honest mistake. 

He heard a grunt of acceptance from below him, and after some shifting he could feel through their shitty shoddy bunks, he was pretty sure he heard pages turning.

"You're probably distracting those pent up closeted assholes, and that's why they keep calling you names." Ryan mused, mostly joking, as he went back to his own magazine. Whatever Alvarez was looking at probably had more tits in it.

"They're just jealous, baby." Ryan didn't know how Alvarez managed to make that teasing lilt work with his generally gravelly voice, but he did.

He considered pointing out how often Miguel called everyone 'baby' at times, and inquiring as to why that was a choice he repeatedly made, but he didn't want to get his already lumpy mattress punched again.

***

TBC Possibly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to [jackiesjunkie](/users/jackiesjunkie/) for being the amazing type of friend who will look up horrible racial slurs for you when you're busy writing, just because you ask.


	2. Not Much a Poet, but a Criminal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Oz is a terrible place filled with terrible people, and thus there's always the chance of terrible language, terrible views and attitudes, drugs, violence, racism, misogyny, and homophobia and awful slurs, and other things that make me cringe to type, etc.
> 
> Author's Note: Title for this particular chapter taken from "Thank You For The Venom" by My Chemical Romance, the song which inspired this part. (I may need ideas for where to go with this fic. I briefly turned to a very old writing meme involving shuffling your music and writing to whatever comes on.)

Ryan had mostly behaved during their continued shared time of quiet reading and reflection, avoiding any more temperamental mattress punches from below. Well, there wasn't a lot of reflection happening on Ryan's end. There was only longing for the views on the glossy paper pressed right under his fingertips, but thousands of miles and over ten years away.

Given that Ryan would lay good money on Alvarez's reading material being more X-rated, there probably hadn't been a lot of reflecting going on in the other man's mind, either. At least not of the kind that wouldn't make a priest blush.

Alvarez had stopped yapping so much, but he hadn't left their cell to get any last minute mingling in before getting locked down for the night. His continued presence when they had the option not to be stuck together for awhile was somewhat perplexing to Ryan. But as long as Alvarez stayed mostly quiet below him, and at least was interesting when he did speak, it was surprisingly not that irritating. 

When the call for last count came, causing Ryan to jump down from the top bunk finally, he couldn't catch a glimpse of what Alvarez had been reading to confirm his suspicions. The man had already tucked away whatever those pages were that Ryan had heard turning ever-so-slowly. The speed at which Alvarez had stowed it was more evidence that it was something very fucking dirty that the hacks would frown upon. At least in Unit B, after last count and being shut away in their cages again, the hacks enjoyed taking a break and ignoring them even more. That could be a nice relaxing change from the constant prying eyes of Emcity. On the flipside, it could be very, very bad if you had shitty luck in cellmates. So far Ryan was pretty sure whatever passed for his personal luck of the Black Irish was mostly holding up. Of course, he usually believed in making his own luck out of cash, well-placed words, and blood. But even if he could've swung a change of cellmates, it would've taken time. Currently, he didn't deem it worth said time and effort. 

Sure, Alvarez had sliced his own face and all, so he could go a little nuts, apparently. But he'd never fucked with his roomies, and he wasn't a prag-obsessed Nazi. Or Adebisi. Simon might've been a useful and viciously up-for-anything business partner, but the guy seemed like a total fucking nightmare to have as a bunkmate. Whoever got stuck with his ass when he finished detoxing in the hospital ward definitely drew the short stick. And they'd probably end up with it in their ass.

Even during the riot, when everyone ran a little wild in the initial rush of having slipped their leashes, Miguel hadn't ended up needing to be restrained and isolated like certain crazed fiends. After having a little fun setting fires with a surprisingly laid back attitude, Alvarez had buckled down and stayed as calm and in control as could be expected from people who couldn't control themselves enough to keep from being locked away in the first place.

Ryan went right to the bars after the hacks pulled their disappearing act, resting his hands between them and idly watching everyone else settling in behind their locks.

Alvarez joined him, managing to slump forward against the bars somehow, fingers tapping restlessly again. He'd joined Ryan on his watch every night they'd been there so far. Hadn't been many nights, but still -- three was enough for a pattern to develop.

"What, are we dating now? Why are joining me again?" Ryan inquired, sounding more lazy than hostile. He gestured vaguely behind them, without moving his wrists from their position resting on the bars. "The sink's free and everything. Oral hygiene is important."

"Don't even try to act like I've got nasty breath. I'm minty fresh, motherfucker." Alvarez countered, sounding just as lazy and not truly annoyed. He wasn't moving from his place, but his fingers stilled their tip-tapping. "Sink will be there for hours, just like we'll be."

Alvarez did have a point. Another point that was in his favor as far as being a decent cellie, actually -- the man didn't stink. He maybe spent a bit too much time grooming and bonding with his beloved mirror, but it wasn't that much more time, and it was better than the alternative.

"Well, you do seem to like preening and keeping up your looks there, Alvarez. Thought you'd appreciate the time."

"Shut up, man." Alvarez said it in the mildest way, using the words as a rote response more than anything. "You jealous, too? 'Cause you ain't the fairest in the land with me here."

Their words still lacked any real aggression. They were just passing time, feeling each other out with casual jabs. Ryan was learning things, too, like how Alvarez's mouth thankfully wasn't getting on his nerves yet.

"Nobody wants to be that here. Doesn't end well." Ryan pointed out, enjoying being contrary. "Please don't tell me you just admitted to thinking I'm the second most handsome motherfucker in here." Ryan gave him a quick sideways look, but it was one of amusement. Very _slight_ amusement, but it was there nonetheless. Alvarez was pretty proud of his looks, but really, everyone already knew that with the smooth and cocky way the man carried himself.

"You wish, baby. Ain't complimenting you, and me setting up at the bars with you ain't a date. Keep those fantasies for your dreams." Miguel shook his head a little, like maybe he was amused, too. His fingers had started tapping out a random rhythm again. "I just like to watch."

Ryan stopped looking out long enough to cock an eyebrow at Alvarez. "I don't want to share fantasies, Alvarez. You can keep your peeping tom tendencies to yourself."

Miguel snorted in bemusement at that. It seemed like the kind of gruff burst of humor Ryan would've felt the vibration of if they had been standing closer. Alvarez had joined him at the bars, though, not the other way around, and the other man had put what little space there was between them.

"I meant watching the fish in their bowls." Alvarez clarified, and Ryan noticed that he still talked like they were behind the glass walls in Emcity. Maybe he sort of fucking missed it, too.

Maybe there never would be another Emerald City. Didn't seem likely, given that they'd sort of set the last one on fire. McManus was a stubborn fucker, though, deluded into pursuing his strange fever dream of better rehabilitation. So, maybe it would happen one day. On the other hand, the asswipe was also pretty ineffectual. Ryan couldn't fucking believe he really wished McManus' pipe dreams came true and it came back. Wasn't going to click his heels or anything, but yeah. It may have sucked, but it sucked less than here, and definitely less than Ad-Seg had.

"Don't even try to tell me you aren't doing the same damn thing, O'Reily." Alvarez was looking out, observing just like Ryan was.

"Information is fun to know and share." Ryan admitted, partially, wrapping it in something casual and meaningless.

"Share?" He'd drawn Miguel's attention away from his little fish again, as the man faced Ryan with a look of knowing disbelief. "You don't tell anyone shit, man. Unless whispering it in someone's ear helps you move the pieces on the board."

Ryan turned his head enough to show off his blandest expression. "No idea what you're talking about, pal."

Miguel chuckled, and it was a low rough sound Ryan had a feeling he'd be getting used to. Alvarez did like keeping himself amused, it seemed. He rejected Ryan's innocent face for the view beyond the bars again. "You know when we took classes sometimes in Emcity? Made us read Shakespeare that one time?"

"Nobody read that." Ryan countered quick and easy, but what he was really trying to do was follow Alvarez's train of thought. He had zero clue where the guy was going with this, but he didn't let it show.

"I did, Iago." Alvarez didn't fully turn his head to look at Ryan this time, merely sliding his gaze over pointedly. "And I see your scheming ass." Held it, that half slice of his gaze on Ryan's eyes, for just a moment, before Miguel gave a lazy shrug, shifting his arms on the bars. They both went back to enjoying their grey view. "Don't worry, I won't share what I know with the rest of the class. I don't mind it. Just don't try that shit with me."

Ryan didn't just watch, though. He listened. To not only the words, but what was behind them, the tone in which they were carried and any meanings the speaker couldn't quite hide.

_I don't mind it._

Alvarez's voice held respect, and that hint of interest like Ryan had caught his attention. Ryan had never really noticed Miguel's curiosity about everything before, but it was becoming pretty clear. He was getting the sense that Miguel liked talking, watching, and gathering intelligence. It seemed different than Ryan's own devotion to those activities, though. Miguel seemed to maybe have a fondness for just knowing things, whereas Ryan considered it useful and necessary. Alvarez wasn't dumb, though, as far as Ryan could tell. Just because Miguel just plain _liked_ being nosy and collecting information, didn't mean the man didn't also seem to process it well and understand how to use it when needed.

"This is your first time here, isn't it?" Ryan asked idly, still cataloguing everyone else moving about their cages, even as he gave a piece of his attention to Miguel Alvarez.

That turned Miguel's whole body towards Ryan for a moment, but Ryan only let Alvarez steal the periphery of his vision in turn. "Wait a minute -- are you _looking_ for a date? Sounds like a pick-up line, man. Why not just fucking ask if I come here often?" Yep, Miguel was teasing to amuse himself again.

Ryan took a second from noting who was getting along with their new cellmates and who wasn't, to turn and actually look at Alvarez again. Had to, to give him his best sarcastic deadpan. His voice held just the hint of an edge, even as he mildly dismissed the man's comments. "Cute, but not my type of cute, Alvarez. I'm no fag, pal. If you think this is heading in that direction, you're gonna end up like Othello's wife."

Ryan was better than any half-assed hack at locking some things down. His words, his thoughts, his occasional gaze and urges. (Well, some of his urges. The ones for tits of either variety, not so much. Maybe that was an unfortunate side effect of using up his willpower elsewhere.) It may have been easier to drown certain things in a sea of pussy when he was on the outside. It was both harder, and more essential than ever, to do so in here. Fucking Scott Ross and his bullshit confession to the nun that he and Ryan were fucking. Ryan really hoped that scumhole was taking it up the ass from the devil right now. (Or Ryan would, if he truly believed in any hell other than here anymore and didn't just go through the motions.) Not a chance. Never happened. Not with him. Not in here. Just the thought of Ross made his skin crawl. Like, well, like the thought of every single man on the planet _should_. 

Unfortunately, on rare occasions, that was not the case. The mind he could distract, deny, and focus elsewhere, but the body was a stubborn motherfucker. It tended to just want whatever it fucking wanted without doubt, guilt, or restraint, be it food or drugs or sex. Ryan used everything he could get his hands on to protect himself in here, though, including his words. _I'm no fag_ let anyone who might get ideas from getting quite so many that might be dangerous to Ryan. (Plus, he was maybe used to repeating them in his head for years, so they came out pretty easy.)

The last thing in their cell that Ryan saw as he turned his attention back outwards was a slice of Miguel's sharp half-grin, as the other man's attention slid away as well. Both of them were dividing their attention, only occasionally looking at the other. "I thought nobody read it?"

"I didn't. But I gleaned enough to fake it." Ryan admitted with another shrug,, crossing his feet at the ankles, still leaning against the bars as comfortably as one could lean their hands and arms on something so unforgiving and cold.

"Why does that not surprise me at fucking all?" Alvarez's grin was still carried in his voice, even though Ryan couldn't see it any more.

"Maybe you're not an idiot." Ryan admitted, mostly losing his sarcasm, with a conceding tilt of his head towards the man he more felt than saw next to him. He was coming to that conclusion pretty rapidly, in truth.

For a moment they just observed the dynamics of their shitty new home, but Alvarez did indeed enjoy conversation.

"What were you getting at with your cheesy line about me coming here, O'Reily?"

"Wasn't a line. You better pace your desperation there, hermano, if everything already sounds like a come on to you. You got a few years to go before parole." Ryan corrected in the mildly taunting way Alvarez did just fine with, before going back to what he was saying. He was maybe ignoring his actual hope that Alvarez stopped turning everything towards innuendo just to amuse himself. Yeah, it amused Ryan, too, but... it wouldn't be great for all that shit he wasn't focusing on. Alvarez was clever, he indeed did not smell bad _at all_ , and the cocky bastard's arrogance about his looks was not unfounded. It would be great if he would keep from forcing Ryan to notice those things in the problematic way while they were living right on top of each other. As far as Ryan could tell, Alvarez was not Ross -- he only fucked things on two legs and with a pussy. Ryan pulled his annoyingly treacherous mind back to what he'd been talking about. "What I meant was, you've never been in this unit before. McManus picked you out special for his pet project the second you passed through the gates."

That earned him another snort of harsh cut-off laughter. "I checked straight in to the fucking hospital ward, actually. Got shanked before the yellow brick road. But nah, man, you're right. Never been in Unit B before."

Ryan made a short thoughtful noise. There were a variety of reasons Ryan had wanted out of this part of their shithole, and into McManus' crappy little kingdom upon his arrival in Oz, but he didn't doubt he could survive here fine if he had to. It was just harder and less comfy. He had a feeling Alvarez would do fine too, and for now at least, he'd get to see up close whether his theory was correct. "I landed here first. Apparently, I wasn't a pretty enough hard luck case for McManus."

"I know." Miguel admitted easily, and Ryan was the one suddenly not surprised this time. "You _somehow_ got transferred later. Fucking McManus didn't do that too often if he rejected your ass at first. How'd you swing that, hermano?" There was that little bit of appreciation in his voice again.

"Doesn't matter." Ryan wasn't just deflecting to keep from spilling his secret methods. He was admitting an unfortunate truth to both of them. "There isn't any better place to get transferred to any more. We're fucking stuck here now." 

"Always been fucking stuck anyway. At least you're stuck here with _me_ now, baby." Miguel was pretty good at conveying everything with his voice, even when Ryan wasn't looking at him.

And even without looking he could almost sense the bastard swaying a little with that particular tease. "Christ, Alvarez. It's a good thing I'm aware you're just a cocky bastard who likes messing with people. Someone stupider might think that flirty bullshit you spout is real."

"They'd have to be too stupid to keep breathing, amigo. I ain't flirting." However mildly Miguel said it, it was clearly a threat. It just wasn't directed at Ryan, but anyone who tried to make a move on the man.

"Good thing I'm clever, then." Ryan assured him seriously.

"Yep. You stay that clever and we'll get along fine, O'Reily." Miguel said matter of factly, losing most of the threat in his tone as his fingers took up their idle little beat again for just a moment.

The pisser was, O'Reily actually agreed with him about their chances of living crammed together harmoniously. 

Luck of the Black Irish, indeed.

***  
To Be Continued, Probably (if there's interest in that happening)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Ramble: Apparently, in this fic, I'm going with the 'Ryan has never been as straight as he claims to be. He just hides it well.' characterization. (I wasn't sure until I started writing it and poking around in his head more.) I've always felt this was a valid interpretation of the character. For one thing, denial is totally a thing (which I have personal experience with). But mainly: seriously, since when is it a good idea to trust all the words that come out of that man's mouth? He also insists he had nothing to do with the deaths of all those people whose murders he orchestrated, after all.


	3. Different...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I did think to myself "It's too early in this story to deal with masturbation, isn't it? It feels like it's too soon." Then I wrote it anyway, because I often do not heed my own better judgment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Oz was full of bad language, homophobic and racist slurs and attitudes, misogyny, terrible attitudes towards many things really, bad deeds, etc. They were an offensive bunch, and this fic contains those offensive things.
> 
> Additional Warning: Note the rating change! Things will get naughtier and more graphic.
> 
> Note: part 3 (this part) sort of works as a set with part 4.

One of the shittier things about a new cellmate--

\--hold up. No point in acting like there was anything but shitty things about being locked up. It was all _bad_ , without any _good_ in sight. Every single fucking part, of every single fucking day, was nothing but varying degrees of bad. Some of the bad shit was tolerable enough that it sort of qualified as okay-ish if you graded on the curve. (That curve went straight down to the lowest level of the lowest hell, so it didn't take something being very great at all to rise above awful.)

But really, it was just an endless parade of unpleasantness you clawed through using various coping mechanisms to help ease the journey. (Some of those coping mechanisms, Ryan happened to sell.)

In a way, the only slight upward incline to all the downsides was the numbing routine. Every particular nasty flavor of life in here just repeated, at regular intervals, on an endless loop. It was pretty much the same awful, every day. Occasionally there were new challenges and new dangers to keep you on your toes, but the regular shit -- the walls and bars you could never leave; the stale air; the sunless lighting; being forced to wear the same fucking uniform as every other jizzbag; the meager, cheap essential products and belongings you were graciously allowed to pay too fucking much for; every fucking move you made and breath you took happening under the thumb of the fucking hacks; the same schedule, and crappy food, day in and day out; the lack of privacy; and the million other loses of outside life you could rattle off for fucking hours -- they were at least stable routine. If you could adjust to everything sucking and put up with it, you could expect the same suck and get used to it. Sort of. Sure, the slow grind of the sucking routine was a whole other problem, but that was like slow water torture, and Ryan could generally manage that. Hadn't broken him yet.

Of course, occasionally things changed. Like cellmates, who brought their own personal shiny new slices of hellishness to get used to.

Like the particular new quirk Ryan was stuck wondering about that night, while lying awake in the dark on his crap thin mattress and scratchy sheets. It was night three locked down with Miguel Alvarez. If they hadn't learned this new little ring of torture in their routine yet, they would soon. A guy could only hold out so long in here, especially with all the shit they pushed through during the day. It was lonely, and it was boring, and everyone was fucking horny. And as previously mentioned: everything sucked. So what little good a guy could grab, they generally fucking grabbed (and tugged and stroked) pretty fucking often.

Plus, Alvarez was not subtle. It would definitely be soon. Ryan had fucking seen him toss something into his bunk before lights out, after digging around in his standard issue belongings trunk. When Ryan had seen what it was -- some sort of tube of lotion that Alvarez had most likely liberated from the hospital ward -- the man had shrugged with a less than innocent smirk. _'What? I got dry skin.'_ , had been Alvarez's explanation. 

Yeah, right. Ryan could think of many ways to describe Miguel's skin, which he was resolutely not doing or thinking about, but _dry_ would not be on the list. Lying motherfucker just didn't want to chafe. (Honestly, Ryan did understand that, despite being fucking irritated. Lotion was a luxury in here, spit sucked, and a dry wank just made the loneliness even sadder and more frustrating, especially if you were doing it a lot.)

After that, Ryan had stopped paying attention to whatever other nighttime prep Alvarez was doing before he'd been forced to see the man tuck a fucking sock away in his bed or something, too.

Yeah, adjusting to new cellmates sucked in various little ways. But how a guy dealt with jacking off was one of the more annoying crap shoots.

If you got lucky, relatively speaking, you got a guy that followed the code -- shut the fuck up. Be quiet when tugging away your own grinding day, and don't say dick to your bunkmate when he tried to do the same. Then you could just ignore that asshole, and never think about it again when you enjoyed your own quiet time, pretending the occupant of the other bunk didn't exist.

Of course, there were always loud assholes. Loud interrupters who gave you shit, or morons who watched porn more than they got laid on the outside and moaned like they were being filmed or something. 

One of the very few perks to being in Ad-Seg had actually been the privacy to do whatever the fuck he wanted when he wanted to. But, well, it still sucked because there wasn't much to do except sleep until you were stiff, rub yourself fucking raw, and work out until you were sore. That much privacy slid into something bad pretty quickly, too.

Jesus. Even jacking off was bad in here. Too much desperation, no other choice. On the outside, it was different. In here, it was another routine. A necessity stripped of half of the fun, especially since sometimes you were merely reminded there was no hope of anyone else touching you. (Unless you got your rocks off forcing someone to do it for you, of course, but Ryan didn't consider that an option. Because he wasn't a total scumbag. Alvarez didn't appear to be either.)

Neither of them had done anything the first couple nights, unless Ryan had lucked out and gotten the best kind of roomie -- dead silent, or patient enough to wait until the other was asleep.

He doubted it.

If anyone seemed like a grunter, it was Miguel Alvarez. 

Or Christ -- he might growl. He could be a fucking growly bastard, possibly.

And he was probably aggressive, beating off like his dick owed him money or something.

Fuck, Ryan really hoped he wasn't stuck with a bunk rattler. He didn't want to feel Alvarez's violent strokes vibrate right through his body from below.

Yep.

Nothing but various shades of bad in here. And Ryan hadn't quite learned all the new ones folding into his routine yet.

As soon as the particulars of this one made itself clear, Ryan would at least _know_ and he could just carry on ignoring Alvarez at night. Because Ryan really didn't care what the asshole below him thought, ever, he just wanted to know if the guy was going to be annoying.

Fine. He maybe didn't want to hear, or for fuck's sake _feel_ through the shared bunks, or otherwise think about in any fucking way, this particular new roomie jerking off. For particular reasons. But he couldn't give those thoughts any time or space, especially in the dark.

Especially tonight. When he definitely had to keep his hands off his own dick. Tandem jerking? Generally frowned upon and suspicious.

Also, usually not at all a fucking temptation for Ryan.

Usually.

Usually, Ryan didn't give any of it this much thought.

Usually.

Miguel Alvarez was shaping up to be a pretty good cellmate so far. Not a guy Ryan was itching over getting stuck with at all. But every little upside in here did have that wicked fucking downside.

This. Here. In the dark with heavy breath beneath him, trying to push all the new knowledge he had about Miguel out of his mind. His honey-colored not-at-all-dry skin for one thing, unexpectedly smooth looking even with the tattoos and sparse small scars, covering all that lean sharp muscle. They were getting along swimmingly so far, sure. But in the echoing empty dark it was different.

Fuck. This part? This was going to suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strange Author's Note from a Strange Author: the "like his dick owed him money" description of masturbation didn't come from me, but a comedian. I think it was Amy Schumer, but I'm unsure (might've been Nikki Glaser?). I realize this is a weird thing to credit, but ah well. When I'm not writing smut about prisoners I enjoy comedy?


	4. ...Strokes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Oz was full of bad language, homophobic and racist slurs and attitudes, misogyny, terrible attitudes towards many things really, bad deeds, etc. They were an offensive bunch, and this fic contains those offensive things.
> 
> Additional Warning: Note the rating change! Things get naughtier and more graphic. I mean, I did not name these two parts (which are sort of a set) after the sitcom, after all. 
> 
> Also: Het smut warning! Imagined only. (No one is touching anyone but themselves yet sadly, and Miguel isn't exactly fantasizing about dudes at this point.)
> 
> Note: Not writing for over a decade naturally means that it has been quite a long time since I've written smut. I may have forgotten how? I am very very nervous and embarrassed about it. My apologies if it sucks in the bad way.

At least O'Reily was quiet. Maybe Miguel had caught a break -- maybe the Irishman was so riddled with Catholic guilt or something that he believed masturbation was a sin he must never commit upon himself.

Nah. Dude murdered people, so probably not. Plus, Miguel had seen him yawning and glaring through Mass. (Miguel only yawned.) For someone who wore a cross all the time, showed up at service, and even took communion, he didn't seem to be religion's biggest fan.

Maybe he was just really quiet.

That would be the fucking best. Miguel would've sent up a prayer for that being the case, but the second the thought had entered Miguel's mind he pictured Father Ray doing his pursed-lip disapproving frown at the idea of praying for such things.

O'Reily may have been looking at a magazine filled with better places than here in the more traditional sense earlier, but Miguel had been looking at a different sort of better place at the same time. His magazine had tits and pussy, not fun tourist destinations. Well, actually, those could be some of the most fun destinations. But they weren't family friendly.

A guy could only hold out so long. And Miguel wasn't exactly the patient abstaining type when it came to _anything_. He wasn't hard right that second, but it had been fucking weeks while he was recovering in the hospital ward. Tension coiled within him. Nothing took the edge off the stress of the daily grind in here like focusing on his dick. Just being able to let it all slip away for touch, and a moment of relief. Coming was one hell of a distraction. Just one moment of feeling something fucking good rushing through his veins that wasn't tits. The kind of tits they both sold, not the kind he wanted to feel under his palm.

Yeah, under his palm. Filling it. Warm and soft. He hadn't touched Maritza in so fucking long. Miguel shifted, hand sliding to rest on his bare skin. Not there. Just on his lower abdomen, with one idle stroke of his fingers. Wasn't sleeping in anything but his boxers, not tonight.

Miguel was maybe a little twitchy from trying to stay clean, too. He'd laid off of sampling the pharmaceuticals he stole since leaving the ward. The fucking hospital ward, with its packed beds and wailing homeboys going through their fucking annoying detox. Miguel hadn't even been able to jerk off to pass the time between pudding cups, and nightmares of riots and watching his amigos get shot. He'd tried... sort of, once. But a bullet wound didn't exactly make even him feel frisky.

Didn't want to think about all that shit.

Didn't want to think about any-fucking-thing at all. If only for a few minutes.

He only hesitated now because he didn't know exactly what it was like sharing a cell with O'Reily yet. All the man's little quirks, and how much shit it would cause when they rubbed up against Miguel's patience and his own idiosyncrasies.

Definitely hadn't learned this one yet, since Miguel hadn't rubbed one out yet.

O'Reily could be such an asshole. Mick had a devil's tongue, always good at cutting remarks. Plus, he watched and catalogued fucking everything.

If that motherfucker said dick to him in the light of day-- or smirked in that way that was more of a taunting sly grin.

Assuming Ryan wasn't a Eunuch, Miguel would have his own ammunition regarding his bunkmate's nightly habits, though. And he definitely had his own clever mouth. So it was mutually assured destruction, and really, if anyone was smart enough to realize that and abide by the code, it was O'Reily.

Okay, so Miguel knew Ryan wasn't a Eunuch. He'd seen exactly just how much the man wasn't, unfortunately. From pretty close up, since it was a tiny cell, not the spacious Hilton.

Miguel didn't send that prayer, but he did still sort of hope to God O'Reily was quiet. And fast.

Probably wasn't fast. Something about the way the guy moved, the way he slunk and lounged around during the day, like a cat in the sun, made Miguel guess Ryan O'Reily was probably what the word languid was made to describe.

He probably wasn't loud though.

He probably whimpered. All small breathy noises that only escaped in a desperate whine.

Miguel heard nothing at the moment, though. He could be a Saint, and wait until he was sure O'Reily was asleep.

If he was a Saint, he wouldn't be in here, though.

Plus, he was half hard now, stiffening heat making itself known in the dark. The urge to touch and make that ache spread and grow into pleasure started to draw his focus.

He'd looked at that nudie mag for a while earlier. Couldn't look at it now, unfortunately. It wasn't pitch black, or anything. Never was in here. He could still see what was in the cell, but he wouldn't have been able to make out the pictures printed on the pages well enough to make it worth the squinting.

He didn't know when his eyes had fluttered closed, but he let the dark fill with his imagination. Tried to remember the best pictures from earlier. His favorite pair of tits from that magazine, just heavy enough, nipples dark. Different girl who had the sweetest, wettest looking pussy.

His tongue darted over his lower lip and his hand gave in to the gravity of his thoughts, slipping down into his boxers. Didn't pull himself out yet, just danced his fingers down his half-hard shaft, chasing a little shiver and feeling himself grow harder under his own touch.

Fuck, it had been so long since he'd been with Maritza. The hottest parts of the magazine drifted into her in his mind's eye. Nah, she was his favorite at the moment, because she was the one he could remember touching. Tasting. His tongue ran over the slick roof of his mouth, trying to remember, missing it, as he curled his hand around his dick. One idle stroke, stifled and short, trapped in his boxers. Two. Feeling that ache build and fill his hand, more insistent.

Not just tasting her, but feeling that wet heat wrapped all around his dick.

Wet. 

Too dry.

Miguel reached by his head to the corner where he'd shoved the lotion he'd snagged before leaving the ward. Being in there, whether working or recovering, did at least have some perks. None of that quickly drying saliva or rubbing his dick raw for him.

He shoved his boxers down just far enough, a little rough, to feel the drag of fabric over his sensitive needful nerves. Made the relief of the open air that much better as his dick stood at attention finally. 

He neglected it for a moment for his balls, letting himself strain and hunger for the return of contact to his dick, even as he palmed the weight.

Miguel heard nothing from above, but then his own blood and breath was starting to rush in his ears. He definitely wasn't trying to hear past it. If there was noise beyond the bars, he didn't want to hear that shit either. There were never any good noises out there. Sure, there was occasionally fucking, but usually only one person was enjoying it, whether they were by themselves or not. If there was any rare mutual fun being had, it tended to be kept quieter or blend in with the jerking off.

Miguel shoved those fucked up thoughts away before they made his dick flag. Thought of Maritza again, instead. Her little whimpers and begging. Her sweet voice and high-pitch. Honestly, it had been so long that he wasn't sure how much was real memory, and how much was his own imagination. But skin mags didn't talk, and even the cleverest of them couldn't get their hands on any other porn in here.

Every little movement he made sounded loud in his own ears, but it wasn't like he was going to stop. O'Reily could be quick to fall asleep. Miguel was just going to pretend that he was. One of these fucking days he was going to have to pretend to be asleep, too.

One gentle squeeze to his balls, making his dick twitch and his hips stutter, and he was done playing around. Faster was better. It had been so fucking long, and he was too fucking tense. He managed to take his hands off where his body would really prefer them just long enough to get a bit of lotion. He grimaced a little, teeth clenching, at the very unfortunate squelching noise it made.

 _Go the fuck to sleep, O'Reily_. Or at least keep your mouth shut. Kicking the man's ass if he tried to disturb Miguel would be another kind of release, but definitely not the kind he wanted. (Fine, he probably wouldn't hit the guy. There'd be a fucking shouting match and he'd have to go to sleep wound even tighter, though.)

Miguel tried to breathe, let his mind's eye go back to painting pictures that were a mix of real memory and what he'd been staring at earlier. He was letting the lotion warm a little more in his hand. There was that one news anchor, the perky pretty one, when they'd had all that TV time back in Emcity. Yeah, she'd been a favorite, too.

The tiniest tremor shivered over his nerves, under his skin, raising the hair on his arms, when he rubbed his now slick hand over his shaft, since the lotion was still a touch cooler than the aching heat of his dick.

Fuuck. He could hear the soft noise of his stroke, but no way was he going to stop. He let his mind flip between memories of his girl, sweet and soft underneath him, and glossy images fresh in his lonely mind. The tension building now was the best fucking kind, rush and shake and heat.

Soft rustling got louder, the light slapping tugging noise of flesh as his stroke sped up. Quicker. Yeah. Quick and rough and desperate. That was better. He bit his lips to hold in heavy breath, but some of the noise may have slipped out anyway.

He was quiet, not dead.

Didn't take long, his cock had been fucking begging for release. He was shuddering and coming on his own skin, his own breath and rush of blood deafening now in his head.

His tension had flowed out of him with another little slip of noise from between his bitten lips. He definitely felt fucking loose now, tired and a bit overheated, but not in a bad way.

It was good, because it was always good -- like pizza, always kind of good even from the bad pizza joints. But it wasn't the same.

Jerking off on the outside when there was the possibility he could get laid at some point, or clearly remember being with someone instead of having to imagine so much of it, or just not feel so fucking alone afterwards, was different than when it was the only good thing he had in here.

In here it was slowly becoming not enough. It fucking had to be enough, because it was all he had, all he _would_ have for a long damn time. But yeah, after the release came a different, quieter ache. He fucking missed being touched. He missed sweat slicked skin against him, under his hands and his tongue, hot breath on his skin.

Miguel ignored it as he quickly cleaned up with the extra bandana that he definitely never wore, never used for anything other than a convenient cloth. He reached over the edge of the bunk to pitch it underneath into the darkness under the bed. Deal with it tomorrow.

At least he could still get hard. At least he could come. Yeah, it was like pizza. They served a shitty, cardboard square congealed version in the cafeteria here every once in a while, and it was considered a treat. It sort of even was, because it was all they had.

At least it was something.

Good thing his eyes were already heavier than his limbs, exhaustion drifting in to wrap around him and carry him away. Always had fallen asleep fast after getting off. (When there was no one to focus on bringing along after him into bliss, anyway.)

O'Reily was still quiet. (Please, for fuck's sake, be sleeping and dreaming of rolling green Irish hills, or rolling in green cash, or tits of either kind, or whatever that fucker dreamt about.) Everything outside their set of bars was still quiet, too.

Good enough.

***  
TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately (or not, depending on how one views the quality of my smut-writing) they will not be actually doing anything with each other just yet. It will happen eventually (I've started writing it and everything!) but it's going to take a while for them to get there.


	5. Thought I Was Hanging In There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I quickly veer away from anything smutty, and they return to smut-free bantering. And possibly bonding. (It appears I only write slow burns now?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Oz was full of bad language, homophobic and racist slurs and attitudes, misogyny, and generally terrible attitudes towards many things really. They were an offensive bunch, and this fic could contain offensive things. There's also always the chance of bad deeds, drug use, etc.
> 
>  **Author's Notes** : I was busy working on a fic for oz_magi, but this is still very much alive and I'm back at it now. 
> 
> Speaking of: if you're a Ryan/Miguel fan (or other Oz pairing fan) who hasn't checked out this year's oz_magi over on dreamwidth, I highly recommend doing so. There were great fics. (Fine, one of the things I was busy with was reading them.)

One of the other very rare upsides to their shitty new unit was that Ryan wasn't alone like he had been back in Em City, twisting in the wind with his dick hanging out. There were other fucking Irish here, thank Christ. There seemed to be some decent guys since he'd last been in the unit. A bit clever, a bit tough, nothing outstanding, but nothing he couldn't work with. They were already circling him as their leader. His reputation leading Bridget Street had preceded him. 

Ryan was pretty sure the one named Kirk (fucking 'Timmy', apparently) would've followed him right back to his cell if Ryan hadn't made it clear he was planning on heading back for count _alone_. Ryan also got the feeling little Timmy would blow him one day, given the slightest hint of encouragement. (Ryan hadn't encouraged. Wasn't that fucking desperate, and he needed to build a crew, not form a fucking harem.) Kirk hadn't said dick about it, or outright offered in any way, but it was just a vibe the guy gave off. 

Speaking of vibes, here came Ryan's new cellie, strolling in with that casual loping strength of his again. Alvarez's vibe? Exact opposite. Always had been. While Ryan himself unfortunately had to say the words 'not a fag' sometimes to keep thoughts that might be detrimental to his safety out of everybody's heads, and warn motherfuckers off, he'd personally never heard Alvarez say anything of the sort. The guy probably never had, and yet his straight as an arrow vibe came through loud and clear. He might as well have had it tattooed on him with those other strange tats of his: _'I'm no maricon, amigo. I ain't touching your dick, and keep your fucking hands off mine. Fuck off with that shit.'_. Except it probably would've been unfinished, like some of the man's others. 

"You should be happier to see me, baby. I come bearing fresh entertainment for tonight and everything." Alvarez announced, seemingly in a decent mood. He hung around the still-open cell entrance, while Ryan leaned slightly against the bunks facing him. 

See? Even saying shit like that, it didn't come across as a fucking come-on. It didn't offer, or show a willingness to accept, a blowjob in the slightest. Despite the words themselves working as innuendo for dirty minds in here. If Ryan had to guess, the guy was possibly talking about drugs, at best. And that? Ryan had no interest in from the man. It would be best to keep down any thoughts on what he _could_ be interested in. If Alvarez wasn't giving off an encouraging vibe, Ryan needed to make damn sure _he_ wasn't caught doing it either. 

"No sale. I don't want your prescription shit, Alvarez. If I was using -- which I ain't -- it'd be my own fucking stash." It was an idle, uninvested guess. Ryan probably could've chased some thoughts down and figured out whatever the hell Alvarez was talking about now. But Ryan's days were busy -- gathering the new crew, shifting his tit trade to Unit B, figuring out the intricacies of getting product in, storing, and working it here. He was focused on getting the general new lay of the land and carving out a safe space for himself. 

He wasn't sparing too much thought to Alvarez's day-to-day tiny details at the moment, because he knew what the man was up to overall. Basically? Doing the same thing as Ryan. He was solidifying his leadership of the Latinos, adjusting to a unit he'd never fucking been in before, learning how to move there, and getting his small pharma trade running smooth. 

Alvarez wasn't an adversary at the moment, wasn't too likely to be one in the future, and they weren't entirely competitors. Different product, different supply lines, different clientele. They could maybe work just as harmoniously side-by-side as they were living so far. Ryan would keep an eye on him, sure, just in case things turned. He did with everyone. But keeping his hand in, and mind focused, on every little thing the Latino was doing wasn't a priority at the moment. 

Miguel wasn't easily thrown, so he merely stared at Ryan for a second too long, briefly pausing fingers circling idly over the bare skin of his lower abdomen, hidden under his shirt. (That strange little move was quickly becoming a familiar habit of Miguel's. Ryan wasn't sure if the man was even always aware when he was doing it.) It was still enough for Ryan to figure out that his first stab at whatever Alvarez was talking about had been wrong. 

"I don't keep that shit here, O'Reily. So don't bother digging for it." Alvarez responded with a fairly mild staredown. Warning, not threatening. 

Ryan held up his hands in an innocent gesture, which yeah, Alvarez didn't seem to buy. This was one instance where it was true, though. "Hey, wasn't digging for anything." 

"Nah, man. Got something else to share." Alvarez casually drawled a clarification to his earlier statement, as he stopped petting his own fucking abs to pull something out of his back pocket. The rectangular object fit mostly in his palm as he gave it a demonstrative shake. 

A deck of playing cards. 

"Fleecing you could be a fun way to pass the time until lights out." Ryan may have smirked, but he was actually pleased and didn't bother to hide it. Anything to break up the boredom. He liked his magazines, but even he didn't just fucking observe and plan for survival, or dream and fantasize about travel, all night. It would burn him out faster. The constant strategizing, along with the repetition and routine in here could be a grind, after all, even if he was better than most at managing it. Talking to Alvarez lately hadn't been a bad boredom-breaker, actually. 

Miguel raised his free hand closer to his now narrowed gaze, pointing at Ryan. Like he was honing in on a target almost. "Oh, I'm gonna make you work for it, O'Reily." 

Nah, still not dirty somehow. 

After the count which locked them down for the night, they both went to the bars to observe their fellow caged animals for awhile in their new routine. There was the usual tidying and nightly prep after, before Ryan watched Miguel swing back into his bottom bunk, sitting cross-legged at the head of it with his back against the wall. Holding his cards. Guess that was an invitation. 

Miguel held him up as he stepped to the bunk though, pointing at his feet with a weirdly serious expression. "Don't bring those big ass boots in here, motherfucker. Don't you have any manners?" 

Ryan raised an eyebrow, making what he considered a pretty good counterargument. "You put your shitty sneakers on your bed all the time." Besides, the bed was still made and they were just going to be on top of the rough dark blanket anyway. 

At the moment, though, the guy was just wearing the same socks they all wore. Alvarez had taken his shoes off and tucked them neatly under the bed, still within quick and easy reach. Alvarez also had the tendency to strip off their stiffer dark button-downs the second they were locked down for the night. The two of them still only had standard issue white t-shirts, though Ryan had spotted some guys in white tank tops wandering around. Miguel would probably be the one to get his hands on one first, since Ryan didn't really care enough to bother yet. Alvarez probably cared, given that he'd already fucking ripped the short sleeves off one of the white shirts they'd been given on arrival in the new unit. 

Alvarez didn't back down in the face of Ryan's entirely valid point, acting like that was neither here nor there. "Yeah? So? They're mine. My shoes, my bed. Plus, I know where the fuck they've been. Don't track shit into my bed, O'Reily." 

Ryan mocking amusement manifested in a snort, but he wasn't really annoyed. Guy was being contrary, but it wasn't about anything important, so again, Ryan didn't really care. There was enough of actual importance in here to take up that energy. Still, he maybe felt like being fucking contrary, too. " _Where I've been_? We've been trapped in the same square feet there, man. What? You think I found a fucking meadow to run through and I've been keeping it a secret?" 

"You would." Miguel pointed out, and Ryan could sort of see the twitch of a grin before it was replaced with a fake serious expression, and another finger pointed at his feet. "Price of admission, baby." 

Price of admission _into his bed_. Seriously. This cocksucker clearly had no clue, or no care, how the shit he said could be taken. 

Ryan made sure his annoyance was clear as he shucked off his boots and tossed them haphazardly where they'd be in Alvarez's way if he got up. There were no more pissy little objections as Ryan climbed in across from the man, mirroring his position. Close enough to play, and not quite touching. Had to leave space between them for the cards. 

"You spent your profits on _these_?" Ryan asked as Miguel took the cards out of the box. 

Alvarez merely raised an eyebrow. "Don't fish for how much we pull in. We ain't competitors, O'Reily. Not really. Our trades can work side by fucking side just fine, you know." Alvarez finished with an idle shrug, like he thought Ryan should consider it. As if he hadn't already. 

Good to know Alvarez agreed. There was a chance he could be lying, trying to lull Ryan into a false sense of security so he wasn't looking out for El Norte to muscle him out of business. But Ryan doubted it in this particular case. Didn't seem like the man's style. Plus, Ryan knew where they got their stuff -- the infirmary. There was a limited supply they could lift, that kept their business niche. 

"I know. Street shit and pharmaceuticals can play nicely together. Wasn't fishing, wouldn't need to." If Ryan wanted to know exactly how much they were banking, he would already know. Actually did know, vaguely. "It was just a comment, Alvarez. Not everything has another layer of hidden fucking meaning, even with me." 

"Sure, sure." Miguel said dismissively as he shuffled the deck. "You gonna sell me a bridge next? Because you know, I could really use a nice view and a breeze." 

Ryan rolled his eyes, but he still wasn't actually irritated. It turned out, maybe, just maybe, Alvarez wasn't only amusing _himself_ all the time. Ryan wouldn't admit that out loud, though. He did admit something else, on a whim, with a lazily shrugged shoulder of his own. "Believe what you want. Even I take a break, sort of, briefly. Locked down for the night is the only time we can breathe in here." 

Miguel was contemplating him, not the cards, as he dealt. They'd spent part of their time at the bars earlier discussing what they were going to play so they were getting right into it. Also, what they would bet. Nothing, for the first few hands they'd agreed. As long as they were stuck together they'd have plenty of time to play for keeps, and this would give them a chance to feel the other's skill level out. They'd played several times back in Em City, but with other guys rounding out the table. One on one was different. 

"True. Fine, I believe you. Just this once." Miguel warned him lightly. Seemed like he meant it, though, about believing him. Just something in those broody eyes seemed to understand needing a breather. "Not going to make it a habit or nothing." 

Wasn't stupid enough to trust Ryan all the time, is what he meant. Ryan didn't take any offense. It just continued to add to the evidence that Alvarez wasn't an idiot. 

"Didn't pay for 'em." Miguel informed him after a beat to look at his own cards. 

"Ahh. You got so bored you swiped them." Ryan made another idle guess. "Please tell me it was from the Brotherhood." 

Miguel's low throaty chuckle made an appearance. "Nah. Close, though. Won 'em off a biker. He won't be playing any more, which is fine, because he sucked at it." Alvarez was clearly viciously pleased with his triumph. Ryan didn't blame him.

"Now that's a layer that just makes playing with them more fun." Ryan's grin felt sharp even to him. He played nice with anyone he had to, but he'd never been a fan of the Nazis or the bikers. Scott Ross had not changed that first impression, and even though that fucker was dead now, Ryan hadn't suddenly grown fond of them. 

"Right?" The joyous amusement tugging at Miguel's lips agreed with him. 

It wasn't long before Ryan learned that thankfully, he wouldn't be disappointed by Alvarez being his only card playing option while being locked down for the night. The man did trash-talk while he played, but not too much, and he didn't cross any lines. He was a bit of a grumpy and bitter loser, but not too bad. Nobody liked to lose, after all. It would've been weird as hell if the man had been chipper about it. And he wasn't the fucking annoying kind of loser who would fling the cards and accusations of cheating around in a giant hissy fit. Alvarez was a bit of a smirking, taunting dick when he won, but honestly Ryan had seen that coming. It didn't go on too long before he dealt another hand at least. 

"Who'd you bunk with last in Em City? Can't remember." Miguel asked as they changed the game. 

Well, the guy _had_ been busy back then, taking on the mantle of power in El Norte, and managing to stake their place in the riot every fucker had known was coming (except for the clueless hacks). Guy already had a line on El Norte handling the hostages before the shit even went down, and Ryan respected that. Not out loud, of course, or where anyone could see. But he kept his eyes on guys who could play the game and handle themselves. 

"Beecher." Ryan punctuated it by swapping out a card. "Didn't last long, though. Only a couple of days before you set our fucking mattresses on fire during the riot." 

Miguel's grin managed to be joyously shit-eating despite being small. Nope, no remorse there. Wasn't true, though. Ryan had made sure they'd had mattresses in their pod, for when reality wearing jackboots and carrying rifles inevitably broke up the party. Beecher had Ryan's back during the riot, like he'd asked, but then his crazy ass hadn't ducked under cover with Ryan when S.O.R.T crashed in. Beecher had stayed right at the glass, unprotected and uncaring, wailing a challenge. Ryan had decided to cut him loose and step back right around then. Ryan couldn't have someone with so little sense of self-preservation around him. Too dangerous. Sure, he was happy Lawboy was currently biting his way to not being fucked with and all, but he wasn't going to go looking there for a brother anymore. 

Miguel was eyeing him, though. The disbelieving look he was giving Ryan was so clearly bullshit, he could practically feel the taunt coming. "For real? How do you still have a dick, man? I mean, I saw Beecher's handiwork in the Ward. Didn't see you in there, but if anybody could keep losing an inch to a prag bite a secret, it'd be your wily Irish ass." 

Ryan stayed deadpan in the face of Alvarez's 'joke'. Not one of his more amusing ones. "Ha ha. Easy way to avoid that? Don't go sticking your dick in anybody's mouth." 

"Knew you were smart, O'Reily. I mean, not with cards..." Miguel fucking winked, and fuck that, they'd been keeping the games pretty even so far. 

Ryan pointed this out in his own special way. "Since when are you winning more than me? Can you not count? Because that would explain a lot about the way you play." 

Another short huff of laughter, and yeah, Miguel took shit-talk pretty well as long as it stuck with the man's strangely fucking playful flavor of it. 

"Kind of miss Groves." Miguel mused quietly after a few minutes, eyes on his cards. 

The cannibal? That's who Alvarez wanted to be locked in with? Fuck that. Alvarez's ass must really be crazy if he didn't recognize how much he lucked out getting Ryan for a cellmate. Maybe the Hacks should've stuck the Loco Latino with Simon. 

"You _liked_ rooming with a fucking cannibal? Fucking why?" Ryan expressed his disbelief fairly disapprovingly, before it was tempered by his curiosity getting the better of him. His next mild probing of Alvarez's thought process wasn't entirely serious. The fucker just deserved to get messed with a bit for that one. "He suck your cock or something? 'Cause honestly, amigo, I wouldn't have risked it. Told you -- could've bitten it off." 

Wasn't likely, but you never knew. And as always, even the wrong theory could get you a reaction that led to some truth. 

Alvarez put his cards down (face down, unfortunately) so he could properly give Ryan quite a look. "Hell no! Do I look fucking crazy?" 

Ryan didn't miss a beat, gesturing at Miguel's permanently marred face with his free hand (he wasn't giving away free card peeks either). "Might want to check in with your face there, pal, before you claim perfect mental health." 

The scar wasn't bad, really -- long, but incredibly thin and straight across Alvarez's cheek. It didn't detract from the guy's-- never mind. Just wasn't a particularly nasty looking scar.

Miguel let out an annoyed snort. "Even I ain't that crazy. Didn't fuck around with him. Don't fuck with nobody in here. Purely pussy for me, O'Reily." 

Hey, would you look at that -- Miguel actually did occasionally say it out loud. Or maybe Ryan was special, and it was his first time. 

"Then why the hell are you mourning him?" Ryan was more confused than anything, so his question lacked punch. 

"Didn't say I was." Miguel mumbled, getting close to fidgety, scratching his arm. "Wasn't awful company, is all." 

Sure. The creep who ate his parents, and tried to off the Warden. What the fuck? Ryan didn't have any real problem with Groves wanting the Warden dead, but he had plenty of problems with the futile and pointless way the dumbass had attempted it. 

Ryan stared Alvarez down. "As your new cellie, I'd be offended by your fucking terrible preference in company, but if you miss bunking with a crazy motherfucker who ate his mother? I don't really value your opinion." 

Alvarez merely rolled his eyes, one arm reaching up to tap on the mattress above them, fingers dancing across the springs. "Sorry to tell you then, man -- but you ain't half bad either. Ain't half as annoying as I thought you'd be, I mean." Miguel finished with a smirk, but he was being sort of friendly, like what he actually meant was that he was good with his current arrangement. It turned out the man was more direct than Ryan, because he continued. "My ass is good where it is now. Didn't say I wanted to fucking swap back. You know, if he wasn't dead and all. Sorry, baby, you're stuck with me." 

"God fucking help me. Just when I thought this shithole didn't screw me when it came to a cellmate." Ryan muttered, but it lacked sincerity. "I didn't think you were half bad either, until _now._ Now I'm kind of fucking concerned you're gonna bite me when I'm sleeping like your old pal." Ryan sort of admitted some things in there too, but he wasn't going to be too sweet about it. 

"You wish, man." Alvarez let out another low chuckle, that grin of his still playing on his lips. Seriously -- how did he manage to say that shit casually all the time without it coming across as a real come on or even an insult? What a weird fucking talent to have. The man had it in spades, though. 

Again -- crazy bastard thought a cannibal was fun to bunk with. Maybe Ryan _should_ be offended that Miguel seemed to maybe agree with Ryan's assessment of their cohabitation harmony. He wasn't, though. 

"There was no fucking biting." Alvarez added offhandedly after a moment. "Would've offed him before the fucking state got around to it if he'd tried." 

"What the hell did you mean about missing Groves, then?" Ryan asked dispassionately, focusing back on his cards. 

"Nothing, man. Just--" Miguel cut himself off, picking his cards back up, free hand drifting back down to tap a soft idle beat on his thigh this time. "Nothing." 

It clicked into place. Ryan had a very good memory, he paid attention, and had excellent organizational skills. It all helped immensely when seeing the board to keep himself safe. When manipulating people and events, when holding grudges and orchestrating payback, just all around -- it was fucking useful. He remembered little things on every person within reach in here. While he didn't put all of his thoughts on Miguel in the Alvarez file in his brain (certain ones were the opposite of helpful and couldn't be spun any differently -- like exactly how Miguel's physique looked when he shed his clothes at night and during showers, beyond noting he was strong and probably a fighter) Ryan did keep a few things in there related to his curiosity over where Alvarez had been getting exactly what kind of drugs for a while there. 

Groves. 

Alvarez had been bunking with Groves during that previous period of clearly being high. And Ryan had seen them slip off at least once at Miguel's urging. Ryan had been pretty certain it wasn't for a fucking quickie under the stairs. 

Alvarez was suddenly missing that odd motherfucker. 

Miguel in the here and now -- chasing meandering little beats on bars and bunk and sink, and whatever the fuck he could get his hands on at random times. Scratching at his arm talking about the man now. That particular familiar look in his expressive eyes. 

Two different, disparate sets of information that lined up perfectly once you saw how the edges fit together. 

"Fuck, you're going through withdrawal." Ryan exhaled the conclusion softly, seeing no real point in keeping it under wraps. 

The fiending was pretty subtle and mild, at least. So either the worst part was already behind him, or Miguel knew how to manage his shit -- never getting in so deep, or on serious highs regularly enough that he couldn't scrape away from it somewhat easily. He mostly just seemed a bit twitchy and restless. Hell, there were probably yuppies who went through worse withdrawal giving up coffee. 

Fucking Groves. Ryan had known it. It had been his best guess about where Alvarez had been getting his mystery highs back in the day. The hospital ward had been his second bet, but it didn't quite track, given that Ryan hadn't seen Alvarez on a high quite like he'd been on back then, yet the man still had access there. 

While the shit he'd clearly been getting from Groves was in the past and couldn't be the direct cause of Miguel's current fiending (that cannibal had eaten lead too long ago), it was an indirect clue to Miguel's predicament. Miguel had to have been scratching all his itches with pharmaceuticals from the ward since Groves' execution. He must've stopped sampling them, going clean now for whatever reason. Apparently, the pills weren't his favorite flavor of poison, though. Hence -- him suddenly missing the man now that he was going through a different withdrawal. Guy had been his _favored_ fix provider in the past, and now that Miguel was going totally straight, he was all wistful for the good old days or some shit. 

Miguel was staring at him, thrown by the sudden proclamation. Didn't disagree, though. "Haven't used since getting discharged. How'd you know that?" 

Ryan didn't answer, preferring to focus on his own questions. "This going to be a problem?" 

Didn't seem like it. It was their fourth night locked down, though. Maybe the worst was about to hit, but it seemed a bit late for it. Miguel was maintaining pretty decently. 

"Nah. Ain't fiending." Alvarez answered easily, before belying it just a little by getting a bit twitchy and hesitant again. "Not, not really, you know? Just. Not used to it yet, going without." He admitted with a small shrug. Still not distracted enough to show his cards to Ryan accidentally. "Miss it a little. I'm doing okay. I'll be fucking fine soon. Seriously -- how the fuck did you get that from this, man? Or do you just ask every fucker in here that out of the blue?" 

"Mm. I don't tell anybody shit, remember?" Ryan answered with a raised eyebrow. He wouldn't mind confirming his old theory, though. It didn't really matter, either way, and they had hours to fill. Plus, the more he distracted Miguel from his cards, the better. "Make you a deal, you answer my question and I'll answer yours." 

"Okay." Miguel agreed quickly, before adding a pointed demand. "But you first." 

Ryan tried to stare him down, but Alvarez had a pretty effective stony stare of his own. 

"Nah, man. Definitely your turn first. _I_ keep my fucking word." Miguel reasoned against Ryan's unspoken protest. "You explain why you're asking me that in the middle of cards. Show me a slice of that scheming mind, and I'll give you whatever piece that brain of yours is craving from me. One thing, though -- nothing that comprises me or El Norte. Ain't making a jailhouse confession or telling you our distribution methods or anything." 

Fine by him. It would have been nice and all, Alvarez spilling some real secrets instead of just confirming a hunch. But Ryan knew better by now, Alvarez wasn't a fucking moron. 

"Groves." Ryan said with a shrug. Hey, he didn't say he was going to spell out his thought processes right away, did he? He gave Alvarez crumbs instead. "And the fucking restless tapping you keep doing. Plus, I'm good at my job. I can spot the lost addict look." 

"Plus, you're a fucking fiend, too." Miguel loved being a bit of an asshole, with his little smirking jabs. Still didn't pack any real punch, so Ryan continued to find it just another way to pass the time. Miguel's curiosity always took over, though, and Ryan had noticed that, too. "What do you mean Groves? What's he got to do with anything?" 

Ryan decided to reward that curiosity, and keep his end of the bargain, this once. Miguel was curious about Ryan's mind? Fine. This bit, he could see. "Nothing, really. Everything. You've been using the ward as your personal pharmacy -- that's a highly educated guess." Ryan set his cards facedown to explain each point. The game was on pause, without either of them having said it. "Groves? You were high on something different when you were bunking together. I noticed. My guess is you preferred whatever you were getting from Groves, and that's why you're suddenly waxing poetically fond about him while you're twitching now. Add the two together -- you being squirrely now and missing the high from back then. Means you've probably stopped using anything now and got clean for whatever reason -- I don't actually know why." 

That last part was mostly true. Fuck if anyone could really know why addicts decided to give quitting another try on a whim, without force, an ultimatum, or a rock bottom reason. As far as Ryan knew, there'd been no real inciting incident. Hadn't been because being laid up in the hospital made it hard to get his fix, what with Miguel clearly being able to sneak shit from there just fine. Plus, the man had even said he started after being punted from the Ward. He still had access, because he still worked there, and El Norte was still dealing. Ryan himself had taken the opportunity of his fucking forced dry-out in the Hole to give going clean a shot. He'd realized that as nice as it was having a temporary escape from these walls, his brain fully functioning was more important to his survival. So now he just escaped through his magazines. Miguel might've kicked for a similar reason -- could've realized he needed that fucked up head screwed on as tightly as possible when he'd landed in a new unit, with leadership still a somewhat fresh weight on his shoulders. 

"Shit, man. Your brain --" Miguel trailed off, regarding Ryan with a small shake of his head. It seemed like more of a compliment than anything else. His show of respect was short-lived, though. "Fuck off with that, man --I ain't twitching. Your turn." 

Ryan leaned forward with his quieter question. "What the hell was Groves getting and how did he get it?" 

"That's two questions." Miguel pointed out, bemused. 

"I gave more than one answer." Ryan had a fucking point. Sort of. Not really. But maybe Miguel would buy it. 

Nope. 

"Bullshit." Miguel scoffed casually. He turned sort of apologetic looking, or what passed for it in here, which was mostly a self-deprecating half-shrug. "But it doesn't matter. Only got one answer, anyway. I don't know where he was getting it from or how exactly he got it in. Acid, man. Had these postage stamps. My guess? Someone probably just sent 'em to him, and the fucking Hacks just thought that somebody wanted to make sure he could send letters out." 

Huh. Yeah, that fit the strange behavior. Was also sort of rare in here, but fuck that was a great way to smuggle it in. LSD could be hidden better than anything else, now that Ryan thought about it. Ryan had outside connects still. Maybe he wouldn't have to rely on the Wops or the Homeboys for most of his tit supply now that his guardian Hack was gone. Ryan was pretty sure he could work some acid. Market would be small, not many guys probably interested in that kind of high in here, but still -- a small niche side-business all his own that was easy to slip in under the Hack's noses? Nice. 

Ryan wasn't letting Alvarez know any of his current thoughts, though. Peeking at Ryan's brain time was over. He could do some market research, though, since he had a resource sitting right across from him, watching him thoughtfully. An example of the kind of client he'd be looking for. "LSD? You miss that more than the prescription shit or my kind of tits? Why?" 

Miguel got this look, which even Ryan couldn't parse. Alvarez's face was like that, sometimes. He could go fairly unreadable when his thoughts were turned inward. 

"I liked... you can see shit, O'Reily. Like it's right there with you." Even his words were a little hesitant, like he was forming the thoughts as he went. Like he hadn't bothered trying to express it or examine it before. But he was now. 

Ryan was noticing that about Miguel, too. Sometimes, the guy seemed sort of oblivious to his own feelings, like he wasn't used to paying attention to them, just moving about his day and staying breathing. (Wasn't a bad way to be in here, in Ryan's opinion. Not like sitting around feeling all the shit going on inside yourself was a great use of your time, or super helpful when survival was so important.) But now, given the opportunity, it was like Miguel's innate curiosity applied even to himself. 

"Can't get out of here. But you can see..." That last pause was him catching himself, caching something in his sleeve. His metaphorical sleeve, anyway, since he was wearing the tee he'd chopped at the moment, exposing his biceps and another little set of tattooed symbols. Ryan honestly wondered how many days it was going to take before Alvarez hacked the sleeves off his new button-down, too. "You know, something better." 

"You liked tripping and seeing pussy?" Ryan guessed, somewhat randomly. (It was likely, given the preoccupations of most guys in here, and Miguel in particular.) But it still wasn't about the accuracy of the guess, it was reading the reaction to it. 

Had pussy been the case, Miguel would've leaned into his filthy thoughts. He would've started rhapsodizing over his fuckfest hallucinations. Taunted. Teased. Smirked. Anything. Ryan knew the guy's dirty mouth that well already. 

Miguel did exactly none of that shit. His gaze turned fathomless, and the small upward tug to one corner of his mouth wasn't perverted joy -- it wasn't really joy at all. Ryan's guess was wrong. 

"Sure, man. Yeah." Clearly a lie. If Alvarez's actual poker face had been that shitty, Ryan would've won more hands by now. 

Miguel seemed wistful, maybe? Or whatever fucked up dark version of it lived here. Missing things you longed for was never that fanciful and nice here. It was a desperate hollow ache that couldn't be filled. Yeah, Alvarez was hiding something entirely different than hallucinations of getting quality time with some nice soft tits. Miguel was missing something bone deep and real. And that's what he'd been seeing on his trips.

The kid. 

Had to be the kid. 

Alvarez didn't really have much else. He had a girl outside, or technically behind her own set of bars still possibly, sure, but that wasn't it. Wasn't sex, that was obvious from the lie. If he was just missing sunsets, or steak, or puppies, or the fucking beach or something, and that's what he'd been seeing on his old trips -- he would've said. He would've _enjoyed_ correcting Ryan's incorrect guess. 

Ryan remembered Alvarez, showing that little picture of a tiny wrinkly bundle to everyone in his eye line. How he'd been proud and crowing in a way he never had since. Like something in him died with his baby, and only a shallow surface version of that old cocky swagger remained. He'd sliced it right out of him, the true vanity and unchecked ego, with the slash to his face. Sure, Ryan may poke and joke about the man's mirror time. But it was different. Alvarez was different. It was plain to see, to Ryan at least. Alvarez was still cocky as fuck when he talked, still taunting and assured, but some part of his real pride was being shoved down forever now. It seemed like his pride was a part of himself he now hated enough to take a fucking blade to it, when before he had embraced it with joy, and it had filled him with light. An annoying light, because that much arrogance had been too much. It had grated a bit. 

Didn't grate now. His smart mouth aside, Alvarez seemed to have mellowed. The shit he talked seemed to be purely to amuse himself and pass the time now. 

A baby, yeah, that was the most likely answer. Dead and buried before the kid had even really lived. Ryan didn't want to think about the man twitching for that. Jonesing for seeing a ghost. It was an unpleasant thought, even as he filed it away just in case. 

Ryan said nothing. Gave nothing away. It wouldn't gain him anything at the moment. He pretended to believe the lie and played his fucking hand only when it came to the cards. 

His mind shifted to a more pertinent-to-him part of the information instead -- he now knew a good way to convince some assholes in here to take a trip if he could get some in. He could sell them on the fantasy, how it would make you really see shit and pull your ass out of Oz, or pull something you missed in with you for a bit. Sure, there were side-effects. Bad trips, harder to hide it from the Hacks if the hallucinations really affected your behavior. But Ryan wasn't the Surgeon General, or anyone's fucking Welcome To Oz sponsor, those warnings weren't his to give if the fuckers couldn't figure that out themselves. Maybe he'd advise them to wait until lockdown to start licking, if only because someone getting caught dancing with imaginary psychedelic strippers in the middle of the cafeteria might turn eyes towards his business. 

Their conversation stayed on the surface, away from tits and the dead, for the hour or so they continued to play. 

When they wrapped it up, they'd both swung back to being in decent humor, all things considered. Ryan had gathered the deck back up, shuffling idly despite them agreeing to no more hands. Honestly? He was wondering if he could just keep hold of them, if maybe Miguel wouldn't register it. 

Then a sock-covered foot kicked Ryan's shin where he'd remained sitting cross-legged on Alvarez's bed. 

He looked up from the deck into that small lopsided half-grin which was also becoming familiar already. 

"Get outta here, O'Reily. This ain't a slumber party." It was friendly (for here, for them), so Ryan just snorted softly in amusement. "Nobody who ain't me, or blowing me, is sleeping in my tiny fucking bunk. Time for your ass to go." 

"Never gonna fucking happen, pal." Ryan said, the threat in his voice just an offhand ritual, since Alvarez's taunt had clearly not been a proposition, just another little metaphorical kick to get Ryan's ass moving out of his bed. Ryan smoothly pocketed the cards when he stretched and stood up, though. 

"No shit." The look Alvarez shot him continued to make that clear. "Couldn't pay me in tits, either kind, to get near anybody's mouth in here." 

"Yeah, I'm definitely not going to pay for that -- I'd Beecher your ass. And I'd happily die of blue balls before touching you, man." Ryan sneered, and it was even pretty much true. Well, the first part anyway -- he didn't pay. And he wasn't going to let any further thoughts of Miguel's mouth, or his own balls, form in his head when they were just mildly fucking with each other for entertainment like this. Ryan was good at lying, but lying about this? That's where his talents really shone. It kept his ass alive and untouched in here. (No matter how much assholes like Adebisi and Ross wanted to touch. Alvarez seemingly had no such desires, but lying to him was just as important. Maybe for an extra reason.) 

That routine sorted peacefully, Ryan reached over to pull back his blanket, getting his bunk ready. When he finished, shooting one last look down at whatever Alvarez was doing -- he saw why the guy had seemed so quiet. He hadn't moved, still lounging with his back against the wall. 

When Alvarez leveled a look at him, Ryan merely waited, head tilting as he kept his expression uninviting and impassive. Usually? Just letting motherfuckers talk to see what they'd say on their own was a good first move. 

"Give 'em back." 

Ah. He'd noticed. Oh well, worth a shot. Ryan easily slapped the deck back into Alvarez's waiting hand without apology, and at least the guy didn't bitch about it. 

Shortly thereafter, Ryan settled into his own narrow fucking bunk with a new travel mag he'd procured. Ryan heard the crisp fluttering of shuffling cards, so Alvarez wasn't looking at tits. Just found a new way to fidget, apparently. The questions started drifting up before long, and Alvarez listened to the factoids about Ryan's newest faraway place with seemingly genuine interest, his comments adding to Ryan's thoughts. Instead of being an irritating distraction, it turned into a conversation on the slice of the world Ryan was looking at that night. Wasn't a bad way to pass the time until lights out, really.

* * *

Miguel was not an easy sleeper that night. 

Ryan wished he didn't notice it. It was admittedly a downside to being so observant, to recognizing how even little things held meaning. 

This though-- 

He should've ignored it. It wasn't actually useful to him in any way at the moment. He should just note it and go the fuck to sleep. It had been lights out for over an hour, so play time was definitely over. 

But Miguel sleeplessly swallowed hard enough once for Ryan to _hear_ it -- a hollow clicking rattle in the man's throat. The noise had joined the occasional shift and grunt. 

This wasn't jacking off. Ryan had heard some variations of that throughout various years in various lockups. 

He'd heard Miguel's personal version last night -- the man had grunted, but those had definitely been different. Rough, and a little bit helpless and yeah, a little aggressive. Miguel wasn't a bunk rattler, and he hadn't been loud, but the night before Ryan had heard him nonetheless. Fast enough to hear the soft slapping sounds towards the end, Miguel's voice wasn't the only rough thing about him. He liked it that way, Ryan unfortunately knew that now. He had used the lotion, though, since Ryan had heard that, too. Ryan had been forced to hold back a snort at the sound breaking the quiet last night. (So Miguel liked it rough, but not dry.) 

Tonight's grunting and shifting were nothing approaching that, though. Even if Miguel really liked mixing it up every night, this wasn't him jerking off two nights in a row. Not even close. 

This was darkness being too dark, and quiet being too quiet. And the mind drowning you in it. 

Ryan was familiar with that, too. It didn't happen much to him. He was good at focusing on what needed to be done, and not fucking wallowing. But he knew the signs, because knowing people's moods and troubles were essential to working them to his advantage. Plus, it wasn't his first time locked in a tiny space with someone else struggling with the shit in their head. 

Ryan eyes opened as the restlessness below him continued. If he kept them closed, he knew what his imagination would paint on his lids. Miguel's eyes, sleepless, yearning for shit that was dead and gone, staring into the dark. Miguel's eyes, so deep and dark themselves, like they held the blackness inside of them. Eyes like the bottom of a well, darkness stretching until you couldn't see where it led. 

And now, Ryan knew what Miguel missed. 

A little kid who -- yeah, Ryan knew. Knew what it was like to miss -- fuck it. 

He just knew.

* * *

Miguel missed postage stamps and his baby in his arms. Right where he wanted to keep him. Forever. 

He'd had them, what seemed like ages ago, time stretching into nothingness no matter how much of it had actually passed. He'd had a taste of them. For a while. A taste of joy he'd lost forever. 

Yeah, could almost taste it. Glue on his tongue. 

He hadn't thought about it as much in a while. There'd been pills. And taking over El Norte, burying himself in that responsibility, because it's the only one he had anymore. (It wasn't the one he'd wanted the most. He would've stepped up for his boy. He fucking would've.) 

And you know, an entire fucking riot, and people bleeding on you, and being blown to bits in front of you, and bullets ripping into you? That shit was effectively distracting. So were pills. 

All of it was gone. 

He'd cleaned up to get a handle on things. He was taking his proper meds, all regular and everything. 

Now he was in the dark. 

Tasting phantom glue on his tongue. 

Sort of wishing he had a nice downer to swallow and drag his ass to sleep. 

He wasn't -- he wasn't twitching. 

He wasn't sleeping, either. 

But it wasn't fucking withdrawal. It was his head. In the dark. 

Remembering all the shit he'd had a taste of, and it wasn't the drugs. 

He flipped onto his side with a grunt. 

None of it was here now. Just the cold, clean, dark. 

Gone. 

His baby was gone. 

So was everything else. 

Just had this now. 

Turned out, _this_ included an annoyed, and surprisingly awake, Mick right above him. 

"Jesus -- if that's how you jerk off you need to fucking transfer before I shank you. Why are you rolling around like that?" It sounded more like exasperation than any actual threat. 

Miguel gave the mattress above him a light punch. Didn't have any heart behind it, though. "Do you know how pissed I would be at your fucking interruption if I was actually rubbing one out? Fuck you. Just can't sleep." 

His quiet words lacked heart, too. He was fucking tired, sort of, but also so restless. He couldn't find peace in the dark. 

At least he knew one thing now. O'Reily abided by at least one code. O'Reily hadn't said dick to him all day about Miguel's, well, _dick_. The man was even still pretending not a thing had happened last night worth noting. Seemed like he'd only talked smack about Miguel jacking off now because it was clear that wasn't what Miguel was doing. No mention of the night before, like it hadn't happened. 

O'Reily was breaking a different code though -- being a voice reaching out through the dark, instead of ignoring Miguel's sleepless struggle. 

Because yeah, O'Reily may have buried it in a complaint, keeping his voice low so as not to carry anywhere but their bunks, but a bitching complaint wasn't what it actually was. 

Everything was a code in here, really. You had the codes which were unspoken rules you lived and moved by, but you also had coded words you swapped between each other to hide your full meaning, or your vulnerability. From the Hacks, or each other. (Or yourself.) 

O'Reily hadn't just said _shut the fuck up, I'm trying to sleep_. Sure, Miguel had enough power to be careful with your words around -- he had earned some fucking respect in here. But they were alone, O'Reily had his own sneaky covert power which merited respect, and he was totally justified in slinging a mild _be fucking quiet_ down in the middle of the night. Wouldn't have started a fight. So, it wasn't the Irishman being cautious either. 

It was definitely him reaching out, as much as anyone ever would in here. It was rare, unexpected enough to still Miguel's movement. 

O'Reily went quiet above him, nothing more than an annoyed thud downwards in response to his punch. (Probably kicked his foot down into the mattress.) He wasn't following up on engaging Miguel, either. Honestly, just saying anything, instead of ignoring Miguel's issues, had been strange enough. 

Should Miguel try to fucking reassure him this wasn't going to be a problem or something? Guy had been irritatingly worried about Miguel fiending earlier. Miguel also knew firsthand what a bitch that could be to be locked down with. 

"Don't worry, I'm not drying out like fucking Adebisi." Miguel called upwards, keeping it low and private. "Do you have any idea how loud that motherfucker was in the hospital ward? Won't disturb your precious beauty sleep for long." 

O'Reily didn't drop it. What he did drop was some more private words down to Miguel again. "So -- it's not withdrawal. You're just fiending. You know, a little." What do ya know? Ryan's sarcasm could still be biting even when he was being quiet. 

"Fuck off." Miguel said mildly, since he wasn't actually offended. Yet. "Ain't that bad. Just can't sleep." 

"Is it the restless, gotta move type of not-fiending there, Alvarez?" O'Reily sounded curious, like those thoughts of his were turning in his head. 

Well, rolling around inside his head, in his narrow bunk wasn't helping. Miguel shrugged himself up, even though O'Reily couldn't see it. Swung his legs, planting bare feet on cold stone. There wasn't anything to do, or anywhere to go. Just a metal sink catching a dull glint on one tiny spot from somewhere in the dark. Miguel stood and headed towards it. Three whole steps. 

"Sort of? It's my head, man." Miguel rested his hands on the edges of the sink, staring into the vague traces of his reflection he could make out in the dimness. His features were a blur. "Not fiending. Don't worry. Not gonna bounce off the walls or be noisy. Go to sleep." 

Couldn't see as well here as in Em City. Should've made it easier to sleep, less reflective glass and low light. The cells weren't in a round, always watched. None of it was helping Miguel tonight. He tugged on the faucet, listening to the water for only a second before splashing some on his face. Chilled and bracing, it's not like he was sleeping anyway. He did sort of want motion, or anything to focus on besides the shit in his head. Maybe quitting pills had been a mistake. The legit shit Doc Nathan gave him wasn't settling his mind enough tonight, not dulling the tugging in his heart. He had scars there, too. Short thick ones, from his arrival in Oz. 

All Miguel saw in the mirror with their limited light was the movement behind him, the basic shapes without all the details. Heard the heavy gust of O'Reily's breath, the thud of bare feet dropping to the floor with weight, as the man got out of bed. 

Miguel turned to face O'Reily, roughly drying his face with a small towel that had been slung on the rim of the sink before tossing it back in place behind him. 

He could see O'Reily now that he wasn't looking in the mirror. In front of him, about half the distance between the bunks and Miguel at the sink. (Wasn't much distance at all. A step and a half, at best.) All that pale fucking skin could still be seen pretty well in the near dark, since O'Reily slept in the same boxers Miguel did. He was regarding Miguel with the watchfulness the man always had. 

"You hit the bag, right? I'm pretty sure I've seen you work it in the gym." O'Reily asked calmly, casual, still keeping their words between them. 

"Yeah?" Miguel's answer held its own question, since he had no fucking clue what O'Reily could be getting at. Was he just, like, trying to chat or something? Distract Miguel from his thoughts with random conversation? 

Nope, O'Reily was moving, not talking. Motherfucker snagged the pillow from Miguel's bunk. 

Miguel leaned against the sink behind him, feeling it pressing uncomfortably hard and cold against the bare skin above his boxers. Turning back to Miguel holding his damn pillow, O'Reily was close enough again to probably be able to see Miguel's eyebrow raise in a firm question. 

"Not going to fill my own fucking pillow with lumps." O'Reily acted like that explained something, even though it totally fucking didn't. 

O'Reily didn't let Miguel's _what the fuck?_ expression stop him. Even though Miguel knew he must've seen it, this close, with their eyes adjusted to the dark. 

The perplexing Irishman, still exhibiting a matter-of-fact calm, held Miguel's pillow up. Two hands, one gripping each side, positioned flat and held out a bit on front of him. Like a target. "Okay. Show me your combos." 

Ahhh. Miguel finally got it, and kept how fucking stupid he felt for not following hidden behind an expressionless mask. "Seriously?" 

It wasn't a complaint, he was... this wasn't fucking normal, but it seemed like O'Reily was actually trying to help. Miguel was just double-checking to make sure. 

He pushed out of his lean, standing straight in front of Ryan now. Closer, that inch away from the sink. 

"Hey, no skin off my dick if you pass, pal." Ryan eyeballed him impatiently. "I can go right back to my dreams of rolling green hills and leave your ass to toss and brood all night." 

"Nah--" Miguel automatically stopped him from shrugging and turning back to the bunks. "Nah, that might fucking help? Like-- shit--" Miguel almost said thanks, but held it back. "--not a bad idea." That was gratitude enough, it stuck to the little codes. 

Ryan shrugged back to face him instead. They were too close still, couldn't do shit like this but slow dance. Miguel gestured towards the far wall, trying to maneuver their position without touching O'Reily. O'Reily? Probably would've just grabbed Miguel to move him, or nudged him with his fucking body. O'Reily followed exactly zero of the little unspoken physical boundary codes, no matter how well he abided by the other rules of interaction in here. Miguel had noticed that from afar before -- watching him hang all over Beecher, and whisper right into guy's ears (and do whatever the fuck him and Adebisi did, pretty sure he'd seen an ass slap once) -- but he had it up close and personal in his space now. 

"No room." He explained, because unlike O'Reily, he actually could try to explain shit. They repositioned to use the length of the narrow cell, along the bunks. 

Ryan was far enough away now for Miguel to extend his arms, to set his stance, and to throw his body and a punch. Well. The guy probably didn't want Miguel actually punching with any force. He was standing there, looking vaguely irritated but resigned, with the pillow back up in position between his hands. 

"You sure?" 

"Fucking lightly." Ryan clarified. "Float like a fucking butterfly, no stinging like a bee. You punch hard enough to wake me up, I'm punching back." 

Miguel grinned in spite of himself, out of his head and focused in front of him. The white pillow stood out more than O'Reily in the dim light, but he could still see the man's face. 

Miguel barely even tapped the pillow, getting a feel for it, adjusting their distance. O'Reily just stared him down, mostly expressionless. Looked a little like this was something he was putting up with -- but hey, it had been O'Reily's fucking idea. He didn't have to suggest it. Didn't have to get out of bed. Didn't even have to call out to Miguel in the dark. 

Could've left him there. 

But he hadn't. 

Miguel settled into some feather light punches, not putting his weight behind them like usual. Ryan didn't say much other than an occasional _'head, ribs, head'_ directive as he moved his pillow target with the brief words, or just followed Miguel's movements. O'Reily may have been the one to suggest it, but Miguel got the feeling Ryan didn't actually know much about boxing. Miguel's guess? O'Reily probably bet on it sometimes, maybe also knew some boxers among his boys on the outside. The guy liked a good sports wager, Miguel knew that much. 

"You box?" Miguel was never above outright asking. O'Reily probably, like subtly probed and led conversation to find out even the simplest stuff. Miguel on the other hand, figured that if you were curious enough to want to know about something, right? Then just fucking _ask_. 

"Nope." It invited no follow up. In fact, O'Reily's tone told any follow up questions to politely fuck off. 

Oh well -- didn't say it always worked. 

Miguel still wasn't putting any weight or real energy behind the punches, just weaving and flowing like his breath and his blood. It wasn't training, or even fucking shadowboxing. He was merely tracing the movements, it becoming a quieter meditation than how he usually lost himself in impact, power, effort, and sweat. 

He didn't know how long he was lost in it. Moving, feeling the stretch and grace of muscles and bone without the hard landing or the exertion of force. Following Ryan's moves, his brief low words, it got Miguel entirely out of his head more than anything. 

It was hard to tell time, amidst the snores, occasional grunt, and dim fucking nothing outside of the cell. And just them inside of it. It had all slipped away from Miguel, the weight and longing, the itch and painful memories. Just the white of his pillow a dull spot in the dark, slow-dancing through old moves in a new way, and a quiet _'head, ribs, head'_ coming from outside of him, keeping counterpoint every once in a while. Lost track of time like he'd lost track of everything. He could breathe now. 

And he was tired. But the kind that meant sleep, and an end to the weight of the day. 

Miguel came to a smooth halt, one of his meditative mimed punches turning into his hand braced on the top of the pillow. Right in the middle, between Ryan's hands. "I'm good, Ryan. It-- damn, hermano. It helped." 

For once O'Reily didn't have any shit to talk, just gave him a nod before tossing the pillow back in Miguel's bunk. O'Reily was already moving, his back to Miguel, heaving himself back into his own bunk more gently than he had Miguel's fucking pillow. Shit, no power behind his fist or not, that thing might need to be worn back into shape. Maybe him or O'Reily could figure out how to snag a new one from somebody whose work detail included handling the fresh bedding inventory. 

"Go to bed, or be quiet as a mouse, because I'm fucking out for the night." O'Reily didn't sound irritated. Didn't really sound like anything, stripped blank of anything but maybe the quiet weariness of late night. O'Reily was probably tired, too, even though he hadn't done a whole hell of a lot. 

(Or maybe he had. But, you know, it wasn't anything physically tiring.) 

Miguel stretched a little, arms above his head at first, before stretching out in front of him a bit, fingertips just bracing lightly on the metal edge of O'Reilys bunk for some resistance. Close enough still to see the Irishman lying turned on his side towards him. Eyes open. Face pretty much as blank as his voice had been, maybe. Hard to see in the lighting at that angle. 

Miguel settled heavily down underneath in his own bunk with a sigh, worn out, but his mind the good kind of blank, too. 

One last low word broke the quiet. This time, Miguel set it free and sent it up into the bunk above him. "Gracias." 

"Thank me by fucking sleeping, Miguel." Like Miguel's fists, there was nothing behind it. It was practically _sweet dreams_ from this fucking guy, in this fucking place. 

And it sort of sounded like he meant it. 

Maybe Ryan was just managing him, the way you had to do with the fucker you were locked down with sometimes. On a whim. Or to save himself the irritation. Fuck, Miguel knew that urge. It had caused him to pop a free pill in Adebisi's mouth just to gain himself some peace and quiet in the ward. 

Miguel hadn't been that loud, though. And Ryan slept fine, it seemed. Sure, three previous nights wasn't a lot to go on, but Ryan didn't seem to be the princess and the noise sensitive pea. 

It was then Miguel realized O'Reily had used his first name, also fairly rare in here. Another code. Another thought quickly followed, a realization, really -- Miguel had broken that code first. He'd said 'Ryan' earlier without thinking. 

Fuck it, he was just tired. And O'Reily seemed fine with it. 

"You too, man. Don't want you all sleepy and bitching about it being my fault tomorrow. So, you know, get some sleep." Miguel said _sweet motherfucking dreams_ , too. 

His lids felt the good kind of heavy, and with a couple of aggressively smoothing gestures his pillow was basically fine. 

No more twitches. 

No more ghosts. No more... thinking about wanting visits from them. 

Just darkness, and rough sheets that were growing familiar, and the code-following code-breaker settling in above him. Who was becoming both familiar and unfamiliar now, too.

***  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another part helped along by my "put music on shuffle/write to each random song" experiment. Title taken from "Hairpin Turns" by The National, which inspired the Ryan-thinking-in-bed part. Also "Feels" by Kiiara inspired the Miguel-brooding-in-bed-part. (I find such tidbits interesting when other authors mention them, you all might just be annoyed by learning so much about my musical tastes and strange inspirations.)
> 
> I have no idea if people are still reading this, but I'm still enjoying writing it, so it continues!


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